Ugandan mystics

When I was in Uganda, I went with a reporter to cover the 'Uganda Convention for Community Development,' a religious sect based in Kampala and often charged with witchcraft. I wrote about it earlier on my blog, but also developed my photos into an audio slideshow... Your comments most welcome!

back to the roots

Even for wanderlust souls like mine, there's nothing like going home.

Home to America.
Home to New York.
Home to Rabbit College Road.

I think it's about roots, about history seeped with memories. I can have the craziest experiences abroad, chasing rhinos through the bush or photographing Congolese refugees in a narrow city alleyway, but in my 'village,' I've walked through this field a thousand times and watched that tree flower and bloom season after season. My family has tilled this rich but rocky brown earth and I have eaten its bounty.

Now instead of news about child sacrifice and sodomy charges, the headlines scream "Gladioli are back in Berlin" and "Petersburgh to get new ambulance" (front page, no joke).

It's good to be home.

Off the beaten trail: North to Karamoja

Before I left for Karamoja, my friends and editors had dire warnings for me: “Be careful, it’s a war zone up there.” “They don’t wear clothes in Karamoja, you know. Are you ready?” “You’re going to Karamoja by yourself? Don’t you know how long that trip is?”

And so it was with much curiosity that I left the busy streets of Kampala on a 5am bus and set my face towards an area that was once forbidden to American citizens.

As we went further north, the food options at bus stops dwindled considerably. The chapattis disappeared, then the bananas left, followed by the gonja and maize. After Soroti, only long tubes of cassava remained, and vendors were replaced with people crowding around the bus windows begging for food or money and crying out for empty water bottles.

As the food options diminished, the landscape also changed dramatically, becoming flat and dry. Young boys walked with herds of cows on their way to protected kraals for the night. We were somewhere between Soroti and Moroto on a deserted stretch of road when the bus slowed down and stopped. The engine had overheated and everyone got off to wait for a replacement bus.

Now, I have studied what a semi-arid desert is. I have seen it on television and read about it in books. But I have never sat and waited in the short grasses, felt the ants crawl down my pants, gotten the dust in my eyes, or answered nature’s call in a semi-arid desert.


"Beauty Queen" reads the bus bumper as men crawl underneath to fix the engine.

After an hour and a half, a replacement bus can roaring down the road in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes to rescue us and take us to Kotido.

I arrived in Kotido in the late evening and the next morning we took a private car north to Kaabong town, then on to Lokwakoromai, a small Ik village. The Ik, also called the Teuso, live in small villages nestled in the mountains, their huts surrounded by a tall stick fence that is entered by one small opening. We went inside and saw short round huts to store food, women cooking on small fires, and young kids playing quietly. Everyone was extraordinarily friendly and curious about their visitors with cameras and notebooks.

When I took a picture of Komol Tubo, a woman grinding tobacco, and showed her the photo on my digital camera, her face broke into a wide grin and others gathered around, asking me to take their photos as well.

The next day in Kaabong town as I waited for a meeting to begin, I saw a small group of Karamojan in bright costumes dance down the street and proceed to the secondary school. All the sub-counties in Kaabong were gathering for a music, dance, and drama festival. Each sub-county had a representative group, most clad in colourful plaid skirts, beads bouncing on their waists and necks, whistles to direct the dance, and quick smiles.

This Karamoja “war zone” was not between raiders and soldiers but between dance troupes and drama performances. They slung beads over their shoulders instead of guns, and pounded the ground with gravity-defying jumps instead of marching steps. Their bullets were smiles and their arrows were dramatic songs as they competed in culture. The insecurity warnings I heard in Kampala felt light years away.

Back in Kotido, which now felt like a big town, I went with some friends to “sliding rock,” a giant rock slab that slanted sharply down into a pool of green-brown water. A deep but narrow path led straight down the rock, as smooth as glass after thousands of little and big bottoms slid down in glee. My friends and I put a cloth underneath us and sped down the hill, stopping just before the water as we laughed in delight. I have been sliding in snow many times, but sliding down this smooth rock was surprisingly fast and fun.

As the sun set over the low hills in the distance, two young boys climbed the rock, took off their shirts, and used them like a surfboard to cruise down the smooth rock slide. These guys kept their balance as they sped all the way to the bottom as I stared in amazement.

Instead of the insecurity, danger, and threats I expected in Karamoja, I found people working passionately for peace, people with quick laughs, beautiful clothes and beads, and people with a playful spirit despite the existing difficulties.

Beading for beauty

Whistles blow, feet stomp, and an old woman jumps high into the air as a group of Karamoja people gather for a traditional dance in northeastern Uganda. Central to the atmosphere of the energetic circle are colorful beads gracing every waist, forehead, arm, and neck. In Karamoja, beads are beauty. Beads are tradition. And for Safia Nakwang, beads are livelihood.

Nakwang runs a beading shop in Kotido, where she has lived for more than 15 years after moving from Kaabong. She cannot remember when she first started beading, but says she learned it growing up. “It’s my life,” she says. “I just know it. It is a traditional thing. All young warriors how to make beads.” Villagers buy plain beads from her, but town people who don’t know how to sew the beads buy her finished products.

Nakwang’s daughter, Arupei Hindy, is eight years old and walks to her mother’s bead shop after school to make a few items. She started making the beads about a year ago and already knows many designs. Although she doesn’t get paid for her work, her beads that are sold help provide books and food for her and her siblings. “This is what they eat,” Nakwang says metaphorically.

The small shop is full of colourful necklaces, waistbands, earrings, headpieces, tablemats, and other items all carefully made from small seed beads imported from Kenya or Mbale and often sold by Somalis. When business is busy, Nakwang can hire up to 20 people, but when it is slow, she can only afford three to five beaders. Nakwang’s profit follows the seasons and provides for her, her seven children, and eight children from her deceased co-wife. “When hunger is there, nobody buys,” she says. And this year, there is hunger.

To design the beads, Nakwang says she looks for colours that match and patterns that prove popular. “It’s about just being creative. If I put this and that, it will be good,” she says as she points to a bag full of beads. If people buy a particular pattern, she makes more of it.

Some belts feature the colours of Uganda, with vibrant black, yellow and red stripes. Other belts have the black, red and green of Kenya or the red, white and black of Egypt. One large belt even features green, yellow and black with “Jamaika” spelled out in large letters.

Different tribes and clans have their own particular methods of making the bead products. The Dodoth sew the beads onto materials like plastic from jerry cans or Blue Band tubs. The Jie tend to make designs in loose strands. Some tribes form triangle patterns, while others prefer stripes.

Most people in Karamoja wear beads—at least small waist strands—every day. “Even on newborn babies they put some lines,” says Nakwang. “They cannot carry a child without the beads.” When girls are 14 or 15, she says they start wearing beads to attract men so that “the man with cows will come and carry her.”

For special occasions like weddings and dances, individuals wear a full set of beads, which includes earrings, a double necklace and a single small necklace, a head piece, a wide belt, single waist strands in solid colours, arm bands above the elbow, and leg bands on the ankle or calf.

Making the items can be quite time-consuming. Nakwang says a wide waist belt can take up to four whole days, with an entire day spent pricking the plastic bits that separate bead sections. “This work is difficult,” she says. “If you’re in a group, the work is easier. But when you’re alone, it’s tiresome.”

But the long hours pay off when dancers don the beads and display their skills. These beautiful beads capture the essence of a vibrant and proud tradition.

Let the poet come out! - The Lantern Meet of Poets

On a sleepy Sunday afternoon, 30 young people pull their chairs in a large circle at the National Theatre. One man leans forward in his chair and reads a poem called “The Greatest Love Story.” People watch him quietly and listen raptly to a story about a man who tried to love a beautiful woman but wasn’t satisfied.

Mouths drop open in shock as he reads the last line: “He concluded he preferred someone similar to him. / He preferred his own sex.”

This is a meeting of the Lantern Meet of Poets, and the author of this poem, Esther Semakula, says she wrote the poem to play with people’s expectations. “I’m a person who loves to dwell on controversial things,” she says. “Poetry is an expression of people’s thoughts and feelings.”

The Lantern Meet of Poets began meeting in April 2007 with four poets who were passionate about raising the level of writing in Uganda and restoring the value of writers. Now their membership numbers over 60 young poets from different walks of life, and more keep coming every meet.

For the bimonthly meetings, poets bring original poems either based on a theme like identity, love, poverty, or war; or based on a specific structure like sonnets, metaphorical poems, or a specific rhyming scheme. The poems are mixed up and passed out to readers anonymously. A reader recites the poem while the others listen carefully, they critique it with detailed comments, then the moderator asks the poet to come out, and he or she makes final comments on the piece.

“There’s a tendency to be soft on yourself,” says member Gome Emmanuel. “Critique helps you to grow as a writer.” Gome started coming to the meets two years ago and is now a core member. “My poetry has grown,” he says. “I’ve learned to challenge myself. It’s like a crucible—forcing you to get the best out of yourself.”

Peter Kagayi joined the group six months ago and also says his poetry has changed by “leaps and bounds” since then. Before, the only audience for his writing was his family. He had no other avenue. But now he realizes how much he loves poetry. “I understand poetry. It was a hidden talent,” he says. “From that day I’ve never missed a single meet.”

But it’s not just the poetry that changes. Members say writing and reading poetry together also affects their personal beliefs. “When we come and talk about it, my mind is affected and I change the way I think,” says Kagayi. “There’s this general aura of acceptance.” Semakula adds that the meeting on Sunday opened her eyes to different perspectives on the topic sex and sexuality. “It is sex, but we all perceive it in so many different ways,” she explains.

When members bring up harsh critiques, they are able to separate the content of the poem and its stylistic attributes. “I think I like it,” says one member. “It makes all the senses come alive.” Another adds, “The author is writing from very powerful Greek illusions that give it that epic, ancient feel.” Some talk about the structure of the poem while others consider how the audience will react to the work.

The Lantern Meet of Poets occasionally takes its work beyond the Sunday circle of chairs. They are compiling an anthology of their best poems that they hope to publish within a year at a major publishing house. They hope to reach out to schools with poetry workshops and public readings. They also hold free recitals for the public at the National Theatre.

The recitals highlight the best work of these young poets, and show us all that, as Gome says, “Poetry is the thing of the future.”